


Layers of All Sorts

by it_was_so_human



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M, I don't know what I'm doing. I just stopped questioning it., Lame extended metaphor alert, What are tenses exactly?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-22
Updated: 2015-01-22
Packaged: 2018-03-08 15:53:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3214892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/it_was_so_human/pseuds/it_was_so_human
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“With my paint box at home, I can make every color imaginable… I haven’t figured out a rainbow yet. They come so quickly and leave so soon. I never have enough time to capture them. Just a bit of blue here or purple there. And then they fade away again. Back into the air…” Post-MJ, Peeta Mellark figures out rainbows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Layers of All Sorts

**Author's Note:**

> I’m trying to work on a multipart story that focuses heavily on Peeta, and I realized that I don’t actually get Peeta. Like I beyond adore him, but I’m scared I don’t get get him. It’s hard for me to get his voice and motivations and everything else. (Not that I get all of that for Katniss either, but you know.) So, I’ve been doodling lines on my legal pad during my spare time all week… and I decided to give the random blurbs a little more connectivity for this silly little one-shot. (I’m also experimenting with how many clichéd adjectives I can pack per sentence.)

He couldn't stop wondering what it would be like to make the serious girl from the Seam smile—maybe even laugh. 

Her mouth was always a stern line, her gray eyes always cold and austere.

He tried to picture what it would be like to see her lips turned up from joy, her eyes shining with amusement.

When they were younger she was friendly and bouncy—ready to sing in front of the all the other five-year-olds.

But it was hard to picture that little girl as the same one who now sat through class with a scowl, keeping to herself.

Fiercely independent and intimidating to a terrifying degree, he couldn’t help but think that she always seemed _sad_.  

(He understands what it's like to have a sadness lurk within you. His mother made sure of that.) 

Peeta always knows how to make the Merchant girls grin and swat his arm playfully. He could easily get the other boys to chuckle, comradely slapping him on the back. 

He wanted to see her laugh again. She especially deserved more happiness in her life. Katniss Everdeen, who grew up too soon, every day carrying the burden of loss and providing for her family.

He wanted her to laugh—carefree. 

But more selfishly _he_ wanted to be the one to make her laugh.

Even if the schoolyard’s Merchant-Seam divide wasn’t as pronounced, he didn’t know how he could get to a girl who walled herself away, from everyone except her little sister.

And her friend, the boy that Delly and all the other girls in school would giggle about. (And she always looked comfortable with him—he ached to know what Katniss Everdeen’s laugh sounded like when Gale Hawthorne made a joke in the woods.)

But he’s caught a flicker of a smile once or twice. Enough to make him crave more.

Once at school after he tossed her the bread a thin, thin, _too_ _thin_ Katniss picked up a dandelion and a small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

And once he saw her outside the bakery’s display window—her younger sister gasping animatedly at one of his heavily frosted cakes and for a moment the beautiful elusive older Everdeen girl smiled a small indulgent smile, her features softening causing Peeta's breath to hitch— 

But in a flash it was gone, replaced by a deep grimace. As if reminded that it was unobtainable.

If he could, he would thrust the cake in their hands—anything to wipe the somberness that now hardened her face.

But she would never accept it, not that it mattered since he could barely sneak out a day old bread roll—let alone a layered toasting cake.

Later that night he tries to sketch what he remembered of her expression brightening, frustrated that he was not able to get it quite right. 

He thinks he would do anything to see it again. 

\--

If Peeta had to die at 16 during the Games, he’s grateful he gets to make Katniss Everdeen blush and smile and _laugh_ first.

He wishes he had a chance to paint every bit of it, but this is enough.

\--

It burns to know that the girl he has admired for most of his life is practically in physical torment over being with him.

That even when the family she fiercely protects is endangered, she still stiffens and uncomfortably acts out affectionate touches and kisses for all of Panem.

But at night when her smoky eyes start to close as sleep takes over, his arms hold her close to him—

She doesn’t resist his touch.

Instead she only burrows herself closer.

And for a brief moment—though soon afterwards guilt will seep in and acid will coat his throat as punishment for feeling this way when this girl he adores is only there because she’s treated like a mannequin, that he’s taking advantage of her, mixed with bouts of self-loathing that she just needs someone,  _anyone_ for comfort, that he’s convenient, —

—But for a brief moment he feels content. 

\--

He’s going to die for her. He will truly live up to that childish romantic sentiment of _doing anything_ for her. 

So he reaches out for Katniss. After keeping her at a distance for his mere sanity while training, he’s not going deny himself during the little time he has left. 

Peeta buries his face in her hair, his lips lightly graze her neck, feeling her arms only tighten further around him.

There’s something wrong with feeling such bliss while speeding towards a death sentence. (Maybe it's because he's resigned himself to die. Maybe it's because he's delusional. But he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about his imminent demise or that she was acting during the Games or Gale or anything else.)

Nothing else matters now—he just wants to spend every remaining moment with her.

\-- 

He is raw and itchy and tired. 

He has to remind himself daily—hourly—why he chose to return to 12.

It had something to do with Plutarch mentioning to him that there were many opportunities in an emerging new Panem—citing Gale’s work in Two and Mrs. Everdeen helping build a hospital in Four. 

It wasn’t Gale’s absence that swayed Peeta—he no longer had any delusions of a life with Katniss Everdeen—but that of her mother.

Nurturing and caring for strangers, all the while leaving her own daughter alone? 

His heart pounded painfully throughout the night at the thought of a broken and burnt Mockingjay, all alone in an empty District. Would Haymitch leave his drunken stupor long enough to make sure she at least ate?

Was she still as lost, curled up, eyes unrecognizable without their fire?

Not seeing for himself was not an option. After all, that graveyard was his home too.

And at first he tried, as much as he could. Tentatively trying to ease himself into her life, fighting his own insecurity and pain. And a panging urge in the back of his mind to snap at her that was part remnant of hijacking and part pure frustration with _her_.

But she rejected him, grew into herself more, and disappeared whenever she wanted to wander aimlessly amidst the ruins of town or the woods or what was once the meadow. Leaving him behind.

Again.

And when that anger brewed deep in his stomach, he remembered her selfish deceitful nature. Her ability to manipulate and—

And he also remembered thin but strong arms around him, a head resting on his chest, and small smiles exchanged where cameras did not tread. 

Those were also real, real, real… but so distant and fogged by so much pain and loss and anger.

She was no longer pretty and proud and unabashedly independent—all the things he thought he loved her for back before he even knew her. Now Katniss Everdeen was frail and scarred and weakened.

But still frustratingly dismissive and superior and— 

Peeta couldn’t be _more in love with her if he tried._

Hands shaking with anger and confusion, he puts his paintbrush down. The painting he was working on is turning out more abstract than initially planned.

He feels a rustling coming from the back door—and there, dirty, disheveled, and caked with grime, is Katniss Everdeen herself.

She’s always so quiet, able to tread so lightly. 

But he’s more aware of her than ever these days—can almost sense her proximity before any actual sign of her. 

Maybe he’s subconsciously afraid that since she leaves such little trace of her presence, one day she can just disappear completely and he’ll never even know what happened.

He’s too angry, and he doesn’t want her here. (He can’t have her here, partially for his sanity but even more so for her safety.)

“What are you doing here?” he turns around to snap roughly, but perhaps not harshly enough.

Because she’s still standing there, shuffling her feet before producing two rabbits from her game bag.

She ignores him for days then brings an offering of a skinned animal, as if she was her dead sister’s mangy cat. 

Now that she was used and dried up and no one wanted her anymore—in fact they probably rather Katniss Everdeen just disappear—she comes to him. Him, the foolish boy who used to _love her a lot_. Recklessly, without any sense of self-preservation or self-worth.

Foolish to love someone who wouldn’t (couldn’t, shouldn’t) love him back, a Mellark legacy of sorts. 

But he still remembers weaving flowers in beautiful raven hair and an elated sort of calm that spread through him while watching the most beautiful sunset. A sunset he was trying to do justice with paint before she interrupted him. A breathtaking sunset that was rivaled only by the flash of a stunning and real, real, _real_ smile from the girl he loved so much he was ready for her to destroy him.

Until she finally did. 

He turns away from her to focus on his canvas as she silently puts the rabbits on his counter.

“It’s very pretty,” she mumbles. 

He snaps his head back to look at her.

(She's far too skinny, uncomfortable in her new skin, drowning in worn men's clothing with an unimpressive braid of coarse hair hanging over one shoulder.

He sure she's never looked more beautiful.)

“What?” he snaps. 

He hides his surprise at the uncharacteristic blush that grows on her cheeks, with a pointed scathing look.

“I really like the colors,” she shrugs dismissively, turning to head out.

He sighs.

This girl was going to destroy what’s left of him.

(And he was going to be a more than willing participant.)

“So are you staying for dinner?” he asks.

The small smile playing at the corner of her lips does not go unnoticed.

\--

He's kneading dough when he feels thin fingers run through his hair.

Katniss pulls apart a curl, observing it closely. 

He turns around and raises an eyebrow at her.

"You need a haircut," she states simply before continuing. "You've never let it grow out this much before."

There's a teasing tone to her voice and he looks at her, amused. 

"It doesn't really bother me much and it's not like there's anyone here I care to impress."

"Oh. Right," she nods, swallowing thickly. 

He's so sure he sees an emotion he recognizes all too well flash in her eyes. And it makes him feel physically ill. 

She starts to walk away, but he grabs her wrist, gently pulling her back before threading their fingers together. He's afraid she'll pull away, but she doesn't.

So he decides to take a risk. 

"Except for you, of course. Always you."

She avoids his eyes but he sees her smiling softly at their intertwined hands.

"So any requests? Should we consult Effie first?"

Her ringing laughter makes his heart swell in the most unbearably wonderful way.  

\--

It feels unreal. It’s all so unreal—but she punctuates between every kiss with a real, real, _real_. 

Tracing his jaw, _real_ , nibbling at his earlobe, _real_ , attacking his mouth with a furious hunger, only stopping to emphasize _real_ , _real_ , _this is real Peeta_.

He will never get enough of Katniss like this—anxious and insecure—and more beautiful and untethered than ever. Fighting through nerves by _possessing_ him.

He flips her onto her back, hovers over her, relishing the feeling of their naked chests grazing, and the way her lips part as he dips his fingers into her center.

The glorious feel of her and the way her skin prickles when he kisses every inch of her and the way her breathing speeds up and how if he bites her collar and then gently the tips of her breast she screams for him to _please, please, please now_.

Her eyes squeeze shut when he finally pushes himself into her, pausing when she let out a small cry but finding reassurance in the furious nodding for him to continue.

Everything was heightened to the point of overwhelming.

And he needs to use more strength than ever to start moving. And then more so to remember what to do to help her as his hand drifts down to find where she needed him.

He doesn’t know how much longer he can last, especially when she lets out the small gasps that she does.

But then she opens her eyes—hypnotizing gray eyes burning into him as she whispers, “I want you to let go, Peeta.” 

And those words combined with the fire in her eyes drown him as he’s overtaken and the sensation of her, her _—always her—_ blazes through him and he sees stars and _rainbows_ and _everything_.

A brief moment of recovery later, he focuses his attention on getting her there as well, his hand finally finding the right pace to evoke _the_ _best_ sounds from her.

When she finally finds her release, deliciously clenching around his fingers—the image of her lips parting with a moan mouthing his name is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

\--

He knows those eyes so well, that it takes only seconds to mix the colors into the perfect shade.

Only a few months old and the beautiful gray is already identical to his mother’s.

She sits up against a pillow cradling their son securely yet somehow delicately against her chest, still in awe of his presence. Her hair is naturally splayed perfectly for him to capture—but she gives Peeta a good-natured scowl. 

“We’re done posing. Can you come back to bed now, Papa?” 

He gives her a wide grin in response, putting down his paints and heads to the bed— stopping to pick up their tiny raven-haired girl concentrating hard on her own little canvas, tickling her sides and peppering kisses on a plump rosy cheek as he drops her onto the bed.

Katniss gives him a smile that still causes his heart to clench and his breathing to hitch no matter how much time has passed. 

His fingers itch to go back and paint the moment before it disappears, but he shakes his head at the silly notion—instead sliding next to his wife and wrapping himself around his family.

After all, there are an infinite number more to come.

**Author's Note:**

> Did I use rainbows as a sloppy metaphor for smile, eyes, and orgasms? Meh, maybe. I make no apologies. (Though actually, I’m genuinely really sorry.)
> 
> Let's be besties on tumblr and sigh over Everlark gifs sets together. I'm it-was-so-human.


End file.
